Page 22 of The Unlikely Spare (Unlikely Dilemmas #3)

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas

Of all the things I need on this royal tour, a ridiculous obsession with one of my protection officers is most certainly not on the approved itinerary.

And it’s absolutely not something I should be squandering valuable mental energy on when I’m supposed to be winning over Australians who are beginning to regard the monarchy about as relevant as a telegram service.

But for some inexplicable reason, I can’t seem to dislodge Officer Eoin O’Connell from my mind.

I’ve taken to mentally tracking his movements like some sort of deranged royal ornithologist. I can almost hear David Attenborough’s voice over. “ And here we observe the protection officer in his natural habitat, scowling magnificently while checking for threats .”

Those gray eyes that watch me so intensely, making me feel stripped bare in a way no tabloid exposé ever has. It’s like he can see through every layer of royal polish to the messy, uncertain person beneath.

I can’t decide if that terrifies or thrills me.

But I do know that it makes me want to know him the same way. His sharing about his brother has only left me craving more.

I find myself having to hold back questions now as we arrive back at the hotel.

The lift doors glide open onto the hotel’s penthouse floor, and I stride down the corridor toward my suite, O’Connell my silent shadow.

Two other security officers flank the door to my suite, nodding respectfully as we approach.

“All clear, sir,” Officer Singh reports, stepping aside to let me pass.

I flick a glance back at O’Connell, who is taking his position at the door.

Inside, the suite is blessedly cool. I loosen my tie as I cross to the panoramic windows overlooking Alice Springs. The town sprawls beneath us like a collection of toy buildings scattered across the vast red landscape.

My phone buzzes with a message from James.

Please call Prince Callum on the secure line when convenient.

Perfect timing. I need a distraction from whatever madness has overtaken my brain.

I collapse onto a sofa. The secure line is a sad necessity of royal life, but after tabloid journalists demonstrated they could hack everything from the Queen’s private messages to my uncle’s therapy sessions, the palace now treats phone security like a military installation.

I dial, and after a series of clicks and electronic whirs, Callum’s face appears on the screen.

“Nicholas!” My half-brother looks irritatingly alert for someone taking a call at seven-thirty in the morning, London time. “How’s the Land Down Under treating you?”

“Oh, you know. It’s the usual royal tour, cutting ribbons, having things thrown at me by protesters, pretending to understand the intricacies of sugar cane production.

” I run a hand through my hair. “And I just returned from a camel-decorating competition, so I can now add ‘dromedary aesthetics expert’ to my royal CV.”

“I saw the footage of you at the Great Barrier Reef. You’re doing great,” Callum says. “Thank you again for stepping in.”

“Well, standing in for you is literally my job description. Besides, I’m getting a fantastic tan.”

“Lucky you. The weather here is atrocious. Grandmother insists it’s ‘bracing’ rather than ‘miserable,’ but I’ve yet to see the distinction.”

I laugh as Callum shifts over to reveal his husband, Prince Consort Oliver Hartwell, beside him, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit.

“Nicholas,” Oliver greets me with a nod.

“Hello, Oliver.”

“I hear you’re making quite the impression in Australia,” Oliver says.

“Well, if by ‘impression’ you mean ‘smiling and waving without causing an international incident,’ then yes, it’s going swimmingly.” I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. “How are things at your end? How is your surrogate doing?” I ask.

“She’s great,” Callum says. “Ten weeks now. The scans all look perfect.”

“Do you know yet if I’m getting a niece or nephew?” I ask.

Oliver sends a pointed look at Callum, and Callum gives him a grin.

“We’ve decided we’re not going to find out.

I thought it would be more magical that way.

Like Christmas morning when you’re a kid and have no idea what’s in the present.

” Callum glances at Oliver with affection in his eyes.

“Oliver wanted to know until I wore him down with three weeks of surprises to demonstrate the joy of the unexpected.”

“He also reminded me that monarchs throughout history have managed without ultrasound technology, so we could certainly handle a few months of suspense,” Oliver says, directing a smile at his husband.

Seeing Oliver with Callum is rather like witnessing a grizzly bear being conquered by a golden retriever.

The hollow space beneath my ribs expands, echoing with something I refuse to name.

These two men defied convention, politics, and the entire bloody British establishment to be together.

My own relationships have been decidedly unremarkable. Strategic setups with suitable aristocratic daughters, yacht parties with people whose names blur together, nights that leave nothing but emptiness when morning comes.

And my one meaningful relationship ended in a level of betrayal that wouldn’t be out of place in a Shakespearean play.

“Suspense is good for the soul,” Callum says, and I snap out of my memories to focus on the conversation.

“Your grandmother strongly believes it’s going to be a boy,” Oliver adds.

“Queen Katharine and her famous intuition,” I say. “She correctly guessed which horse would win the Derby three years in a row. Though I’m still not entirely convinced she didn’t have inside information from the stables.”

Callum laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“How is she doing?” I ask.

“She’s improved significantly,” Oliver says. “Though she’s rather frustrated with the doctors insisting she’s not up to engagements yet.”

That sounds exactly like our grandmother.

“She did mention she’s been reviewing your press coverage,” Callum says. “She’s quite pleased, actually. Said you were doing a good job.”

“High praise indeed from Her Majesty.” I have a burst of pleasure at the compliment. Grandmother’s approval has always been a rare and valuable currency in our family.

“Actually, talking about doing a good job at something, there’s something we wanted to ask you,” Callum’s voice shifts, taking on that particular American earnestness. “Oliver and I have been discussing godparents, and we’d like to ask if you’d consider the job.”

The phone nearly slips from my fingers.

Something hot and uncomfortable prickles behind my eyes, and it’s a few seconds before I’m able to reply.

“Me? Are you certain? I’m hardly a paragon of responsible behavior. Surely there are better candidates for spiritual guidance?”

“We thought you were the best person for the job,” Oliver says seriously.

I have to swallow against a sudden tightness in my throat. “Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse? Though I should warn you, I’m anticipating my godparenting skills will extend primarily to inappropriate birthday gifts and providing alibis when your child sneaks out of state functions.”

“We wouldn’t expect anything less,” Callum says with a grin.

I fiddle with my signet ring, twisting it in circles around my finger as I try to compose myself.

The fact that Callum and Oliver are trusting me with such an important task makes me feel all kinds of warm and squirmy feelings that I ordinarily take great pains to avoid feeling.

Because affection goes hand in hand with vulnerability, and in my personal royal handbook, vulnerability ranks somewhere between treason and wearing brown shoes with a navy suit at royal functions.

I swiftly steer the conversation elsewhere.

“Anyway, Oliver, you look quite overdressed for this time in the morning.”

“I’ve got a meeting this morning.”

“What sort of meeting?” I ask.

“It’s for a committee that’s working on a rather complex policy framework regarding historical accountability and reparations for slavery in the Caribbean.”

“What do you mean, reparations for slavery? I was under the impression we had already paid that,” I say.

“Well, we paid reparations to the enslavers,” Oliver says.

Oh. Right. So, not compensation for the people who actually suffered, just the ones who profited from their suffering.

“In 1833, the government paid twenty million pounds to British plantation owners in reparation for the loss of their enslaved laborers, but never gave any compensation to those actually enslaved,” Callum fills in.

“As you can imagine, some nations are now starting to question whether it’s time for actual reparations to be given to the people whose labor built our wealth. ”

“Bloody hell,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Is there anyone in this world we didn’t fuck over?”

Oliver’s lips twitch in what might almost be a smile. “That’s not quite the diplomatic language we’re using in the policy papers.”

“Forgive me for not adhering to the approved palace vocabulary list. I appear to have misplaced my How to Discuss Colonial Atrocities Without Making the Crown Look Bad handbook.” I take a deep breath and continue on, “It’s shameful, really.

I spent years at Eton and Oxford without once properly examining what ‘the sun never set on the British Empire’ actually meant.

Then I land in Sydney to paint-filled balloons, DECOLONIZE THE CROWN signs, and Indigenous people protesting over what happened to them, and suddenly, all those history lessons feel rather sanitized. ”

Oliver’s face is thoughtful. “Like most other people in the United Kingdom, I grew up thinking that Britain brought civilization to the colonies. To be honest, it was only through my exposure to other leaders of the Commonwealth as prime minister that I began to question that narrative.”